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Monday, November 16, 2015

There was a moon, low in the sky and worn, thumbed partly away like an old coin, and he went on. Above banana
and palm the cathedral spires soared without perspective on the hot sky. Looking through the tall pickets into
Jackson square was like looking into an aquarium—a moist and motionless absinthe—cloudy green of all shades from
ink black to a thin and rigid feathering of silver on pomegranate and mimosa—like coral in a tideless sea, amid
which globular lights hung dull and unstraying as jellyfish, incandescent yet without seeming to emanate light;
and in the center of it Andrew’s baroque plunging stasis nimbused about with thin gleams as though he too were
recently wetted.